


Guide Me Home

by KeepCalmLoveSeverus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: Alpha Lestrade, Alpha Sherlock, Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Omega John, Omega John Watson, Omega Mycroft, Omega!John, Omegaverse, a/b/o dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2627183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepCalmLoveSeverus/pseuds/KeepCalmLoveSeverus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is being stalked by a former Omega lover who is unstable enough to be violent; he may be an Alpha, but he very rarely stoops to physical displays of dominance, and as such, he needs a body guard. Whether he wants to admit to that or not is entirely moot, as Mycroft is more than happy to facilitate the circumstances. Enter Omega Dr. John Watson and a whole slew of new distractions from Sherlock's sleuthing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So Tired, Just Can't Sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue/gifts).



> Title taken from the Song "Fix You" by Coldplay

Nobody warned Sherlock, when he was a young Alpha, that Omegas were more prone to hysterics than any other gender. Naturally, this might have been due to the fact that he had been surrounded by perfectly rational human beings in his developmental stages, and their gender was secondary to their rationality. If that was the case, the Omega sobbing on the Persian rug in front of him seemed to have missed out on quite a few lessons on comportment.

"Please, Sherlock, please. I promise I'll be a good Omega," whined Victor, sinking to his knees and further debasing himself by throwing his arms around Sherlock's legs like a petulant child. Sherlock had the vague insight to be grateful they were in the privacy of Victor's apartment, or else the poor wretch would _really_ have humiliated himself. "I can cook and clean and give you healthy babies, just please don't do this,  _please!_ " Victor's strident tones became high pitched enough that Sherlock, who had listened to his pleas with growing distaste, jerked his legs away, not caring when Victor fell forward.

In a deep, disinterested baritone, Sherlock informed the sobbing wretch, "The mere fact that you believe that sundry list of qualities to be the epitome of a good Omega is precisely why I am doing this, Victor. I find all of those things dull -- after all, Mrs. Hudson already cooks  _and_ cleans, so what need have I for you? I've no interest in screaming brats, which you would know if you were truly as enthralled with me as you claim." Leaning down, he caressed Victor's head slightly -- after all, he wasn't a monster, and Victor  _had_ given him several acceptable months of companionship before sliding into mediocrity. "You and I both know that you want to be  _taken care of._ " He sneered the words as though they were distasteful. He didn't want a burden -- he wanted a companion. Someone who didn't shy away from his lifestyle, but embraced it. "I can't give you that. So go find an Alpha who can. Goodbye, Victor."

As he turned on one heel to leave, Sherlock's signature coat swirled around his ankles, the tip just brushing over Victor's cheek, like the caress the Omega so deeply craved. 

He would _make_  Sherlock need him. There was no other way he could be happy -- Sherlock was  _his_ , even if the poor Alpha hadn't noticed it yet.

And so he began to plot, even as Sherlock put the entire scene out of his mind.

"I'll make you love me, Sherlock Holmes. If it's the last thing I do."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~```~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sherlock hadn't slept in a week. It was getting to the point where even D.I. Lestrade had kicked him out of a crime scene, saying, "Christ, Sherlock, you look like a bloody zombie. Don't come back until you've rested up!"

The only problem was that Sherlock  _couldn't_ sleep. It wasn't safe. Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the splashes of red across Mrs. Hudson's limp figure, the flashing blue lights of the ambulance as they rushed her to St. Bart's, the beeping of her heart monitor that echoed through the private room he had secured her (with Mycroft's aid, of course). It was maddening. He was an Alpha, Mrs. Hudson a Beta, and it had been his job to protect her, but he hadn't. And so, in the place of sleep, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to stand vigil at Mrs. Hudson's bedside until she woke up. The police had been by the flat and had swept everywhere for forensics, Lestrade making certain that the whole crew knew it was for Mrs. Hudson's sake, not Sherlock's, but so far nothing had turned up, and Sherlock wasn't trusting Mrs. Hudson's continued safety to the dozing Beta stationed outside her door.

It was his fault she was in this position, and so it fell to him to make sure she was able to wake up and scold him for it.

Over the course of the week, Sherlock had gotten to know all of the doctors staffed on the critical care floor of St. Bart's, and had formed a grudging understanding with them that he wouldn't get in the way of their treating Mrs. Hudson, so long as they told him precisely what they were doing. It had gotten to the point where the doctors would see him sitting in the hair next to her bed, nod wearily, and begin a detailed explanation of where all of the blood they drew was going and what it was being tested for.

Once, they had tried to wheel her bed out of the room for an MRI without telling him where they were going.

Only once.

Since then, the doctors had taken extra care to make sure they wore their name tags in plain sight and that they acknowledged Sherlock with respect. Even the Alphas. Perhaps  _especially_ the Alphas, who had suffered a bit more aggression at Sherlock's hands than any of the other staff he had since become acquainted with.

Tonight, however, the doctor was not someone that Sherlock knew, and from the first moment he scented Omega pheromones, his hackles went up. Almost jumping to his feet, he barked out a harsh, "Who the devil are you?"

Dirty blond hair couldn't hide sharply intelligent brown eyes, the same way the loose lab coat couldn't hide a muscular physique, and Sherlock became more on guard with every feature he noted. Cane in use, but the limp was intermittent. When confronted, the man leaned his weight back on the supposedly injured leg, as though preparing for a more physical fight. The tan line around his neck and wrists indicated that he had spent quite some time in the sun, and recently, which England was  _not_ known for at this time of year (or any time, really). Sherlock would have deduced military, except he couldn't fathom one good reason for an Army man to be in Mrs. Hudson's private room at St. Bart's, unless he had been hired by Victor Trevor to finish the deed.

Almost as soon as he had come to that conclusion, and without giving the assassin time to answer, Sherlock leapt into action; putting himself between the stranger and Mrs. Hudson was the first priority, and so he leapt over the corner of her bed, catapulting his body towards the intruder with reckless abandon. Blood rushed through his veins, pounded in his ear drums, made everything seem as if in slow motion; his hand whipping out to restrain the fake doctor's looked, in his eyes, as though it was moving at glacial speed, even though he knew, rationally, that he was striking as quickly as a viper. The same distortion of time continued as the doctor, apparently snapping out of his surprise, parried the grab with a step backward, then brought his hands up in what seemed an instinctive self defense tactic meant to concuss Sherlock's eardrums and daze him slightly.

Sherlock, however, leaned back in a move reminiscent of Neo in The Matrix, and as the strange man's hand came within his visual range, he reached forward, gripping it tightly so that he could twist the elbow at just the right point so as to cause pain but not break anything.

Slamming his captive against the wall, Sherlock snarled through gritted teeth, "Who. Sent. You? Was it Victor?"

"Wh-" Before Sherlock's captive could sputter out a denial, a dry, smug voice from the door drew Sherlock's wrathful attention completely away.

"Ah, delightful. I see you boys are already making friends with each other."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock growled, wishing he could knock that smug grin off of his older brother's face. He settled for sweeping the point of Mycroft's umbrella out from under where he leaned on it, causing him to tumble against the wall.

Petty, but it made him feel better. 

Getting back to the topic at hand, Sherlock demanded, with a sweeping arm motion, "Who is this man?" Alpha or not, it was only a very rare show of self control that restrained him from stomping his foot on the ground. He was suspicious and adrenaline pumped through his body at high speeds, making him feel like he could take on any fight.

Smirking, Mycroft introduced thm. "Dr. Watson, meet my brother Sherlock Holmes, the prissiest Alpha you will ever have the displeasure of meeting." The man who Sherlock had just accosted looked far from disgruntled; as a matter of fact, he grinned crookedly even as he rotated his wrenched shoulder. It almost distracted Sherlock from scowling at his brother's assessment of his character.

"Good show, there," he complimented Sherlock. Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. He still didn't know what any of this required Mycroft's presence.

"And, Sherlock," continued Mycroft, a wicked glint in his eye, "Meet Dr. John Watson, your new flatmate and body guard. He'll be keeping an eye out for any more attacks until this whole affair is settled."

All hell broke loose as Sherlock threw a fit to end all fits.

 


	2. Ignite the Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a whiny twat, which surprises no one.

"A  _bodyguard?_ " fumed Sherlock, pacing in a tight line between the two other men. "What makes you think I need a bodyguard -- and an  _Omega_ bodyguard, at that? I had him pinned to the wall in two seconds flat!" Scowling, the dark haired man threw a sneer at the calm doctor, who remained unruffled and unconcerned, even though the disparaging remark about his gender stung a bit. "It's a scientific fact that Omegas are less physically capable than either Alphas or Betas, and that in times of distress their Fight or Flight instincts lean heavily toward  _Flight._ "

Moving to check Mrs. Hudson's vitals, the doctor spoke in a slow, ponderous tone, obviously not trying to cause any more conflict, but also not willing to let a slight against his dignity go. "For your information, I allowed you to pin me because we're in public and that's what  _Good Omegas_ do." His lips and tone twisted slightly, conveying precisely what he thought of the gender stereotypes that he had been saddled with at birth. "Matter of fact, if I hadn't already known you were quite high strung," John shot a glance at Mycroft, silently thanking him for the warning, "you might have found it quite a different situation. Haven't you ever heard of PTSD, you wanker?" _  
_

"PTSD?" Sherlock repeated thoughtfully. His ire was derailed by the new puzzle Mycroft had presented him. Unfortunately, when he wasn't on a case, Sherlock tended to have the attention span of a not-very-bright shepherding dog. "So my deductions were correct -- you  _are_ an Army man. But you're an Omega." He stated it bluntly, without malice, but John still twitched, as if an irritating fly had buzzed into his ear. "You can't have seen direct combat -- Omegas aren't authorized for that!" Between the widespread stereotype that Omegas were delicate flowers that needed protecting and the legislature made by decrepit, outdated Alphas meant to keep Omegas 'in their place', it had long been just another fact that, while Omegas could serve in the military, they were not to be on the front lines of combat, nor were they to directly engage any enemy squadrons.

John's face twisted at the casual sexism Sherlock had just displayed -- although, he didn't seem to have a personally invested belief in the things he was espousing; it was more like he was repeating facts he had read somewhere without fully thinking about all of the ramifications of their truths -- and, while he wasn't exactly in the habit of sharing personal information on the first meeting with someone, he thought he might be able to trust Mycroft not to allow Sherlock to completely embarrass him. Mycroft was good at cleaning up his brother's messes -- always had been. Leaning on his cane stiffly, John heaved a sigh, his hand scrubbing over his face briefly in an unconscious tic that Sherlock quickly filed away. "I wasn't meant to be in active combat, no. We were ambushed on our way to a trauma hospital in some godforsaken desert that I've blocked away the name of. Most of my unit didn't make it out. They tell me I' one of the lucky ones." A grimace pulls at his lips; he's not so sure of that.

Mycroft stepped in, cutting Sherlock off before he could ask any more questions and giving John some time to regroup. "Sherlock, you  _will_ cooperate with John's efforts to keep you safe. He comes very highly recommended -- and you're not to wear him out like you did the last three, do you hear me?"

John looked at Mycroft, a slight bit of wariness finally creeping into his features. "Wait -- just how many bodyguards has he gone through?"

Sherlock, who had been peering at John speculatively, seemed to make a decision, waving his hand airily and saying, "Not to worry, Mcroft, I think this one might be able to keep up -- for a week or so." That last bit, he sneered, disdain hiding curiosity. "He'll do for now," came the dismissive final decision.

"Well, and there you have it," sighed Mycroft in an undertone as Sherlock stalked back to Mrs. Hudson's bedside. "My brother. Still want this assignment, Doctor Watson?"

Gritting his teeth, John watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes, peripheral vision tracking the antsy Alpha's every pacing step. "He doesn't sleep much, does he?" came the dry observation. "I do believe we'll make a great pair."

 

\-----~~~~~-----

 

It had only been three days, and already John found himself on the edge of strangling Sherlock every other five minutes. The Alpha was high-strung, high-handed, and high-maintenance. He required constant attention but refused to admit that he wanted to interact with another human being, so he resorted to insults and snide 'deductions' about John. It had been mildly entertaining.

The first time.

Now, it was getting under John's skin. He couldn't scratch his nose without Sherlock attributing the motion to some past experience.

And the worst part was that he was  _always. Bloody. Right!_  John was all for Sherlock entertaining himself inside the flat, but not at his own expense. He was tired of being cooped up, and he could tell Sherlock was too. So he made an executive decision. 

"Right!" He stood up awkwardly, leg barely functional after curling up in what had become 'his' chair. "Get up, and put some bloody trousers on. We're going to visit Mrs. Hudson, and then we're going to the grocery." There was only so many days of noodles and stale biscuits he could take. How Sherlock had ever survived before Mrs. Hudson fed him, John would never know.

Sherlock, predictably, was ignoring John; limping over to where the Alpha was sitting in a sullen little ball, John rapped Sherlock's leg with his cane. "Oi! I said get up. C'mon then, I'm not going to watch you piss away another day. We're going out." Sherlock swatted at the cane, but made no other indication of having heard John. So John rapped him again. And again. And again.

"Alright! All fucking right, I'm going!" shouted Sherlock, leaping from his chair and flouncing to his room. "But I refuse to be seen with you when you're dressed like that. I have standards to maintain." Offended, John looked down at his outfit, mouth open slightly in disbelief.

He wasn't wearing anything outlandish. Standard jumper with a button-up under it and a pair of trousers that were loose enough for him to move in. It wasn't like he was wearing a sack; having decided this, he ignored Sherlock's jab, certain it was just designed to make him self-conscious. John knew how Sherlock liked his little games. He simply refused to play along.

He had his pride, after all. If nothing else.

Twenty inordinately long minutes later, Sherlock stomped out of his room is his usual outfit of whatever he could find thrown under that ridiculous pea coat, looked John up and down, and proclaimed, "You'll do, I suppose. Come along, John, we shouldn't leave Mrs. Hudson waiting."

As Sherlock swept past him, John bit his lip to keep from snapping.

Sherlock Holmes would not break him. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission fic for [justsuperblue](http://tmblr.co/mC8Mj_my841barRd0vyrqGQ) over on tumblr, also known as [superblue](archiveofourown.org/users/superblue) here on AO3.
> 
> Come commission me yourself at [johnlockscocks](http://johnlockscocks.tumblr.com) or email me at keepcalmloveseverus@yahoo.com!
> 
> Also if you find any grammatical/spelling errors, please feel free to let me know in the comments, as always. XD


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